Letting go
by Dustbunnyprophet
Summary: No matter what he may have wished for, it was for the best. Molly would eventually find a measure of joy. And he... He had been given the greatest gift Molly could have given him. His life.


Letting go

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A/N Set during "The Empty Hearse".

This fic has been inspired by Antonio Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons - Concerto No. 2 in G minor, Op. 8, RV 315, "L'estate" (Summer)"

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He inhaled the frigid air of the November evening, striding down the pavement as the sparse flakes of snow descended around him, white in the wan light. He resisted the urge to look back, staring ahead at the cars that sped by him on the road, his shoulders squared.

In the thirty-six years of his life, Sherlock Holmes knew without a doubt that walking away from that terrace house had been one the hardest feats he had accomplished. And for a man with a curriculum vitae which included being the world's only Consulting Detective, it was not easy to admit it to himself. Nor had it been easy to do so. He still struggled to believe that after all this time he _had_ walked away.

His feet carried him forward, unrelenting in their speed, while he pictured with infallible clarity the memory of the moment, three minutes prior. Of Molly, standing alone in the dimly lit entrance with a forlorn expression on her face, thin lips pulled in a downward curve and large brown eyes displaying an array of emotions which had torn through him like a bullet, severing the tissue of his thoughts and flooding the rooms of his mind palace with an anguish that Sherlock had anticipated - and yet had spectacularly failed short of predicting. He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing his body to relax in spite of the tight knot – not a _knot_ , he dismissed the useless analogy, merely the over-stimulation of the vagus nerve which caused muscle tightness in his chest. He told himself it was nothing.

But it _wasn't,_ was it?

He lifted his lids and stared at the street ahead, people passing by and their voices carrying snippets of information which mingled with the rapid-fire deductions he made as his eyes glanced on their appearance. He saw them, observed them, took notice of everything but it felt like sipping cold tea while his mind treacherously edged towards those corridors of his mind's palace which were better left alone. And at the same time he struggled to rein his body in, to stop the simultaneous hormonal triggering of the sympathetic and parasympathetic activation systems. To banish the phantom crushing weight upon his chest.

He swallowed. It would have been easier if she had been happy - if she had truly felt the joy she had professed at her choices. But it would have taken a man of lesser intellectual abilities than Sherlock Holmes to deduce she was all but – to see the hopeless depth of her sadness in the sheen of moisture on her corneas, to take note of the resignation in her hunched shoulders, the struggle to keep a hold of her life in the slight shallowness of her breaths. He so seldom fell prey to self-recrimination, but when it came to Molly Hooper he had nothing but contempt for himself. After all he had always been the reason for her misery.

Sherlock had always known the regard she held him in, the _sentiment_ he elicited with his presence and how eager she had always been to impress him - to be noticed. As if he could have not noticed her. Foolish woman. But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a pragmatic man, and while he knew John had frowned upon it, Sherlock had never had any compulsion in using her feelings to accomplish a greater goal. It made things easier. A harmless compliment had always managed to speed up the process and get him whatever it was he needed.

But the Fall had changed that.

He had been earnest with Molly, in a way he had never been. And had she refused him, he would have not pushed the matter. He would have found another way.

But Molly Hooper had been there for him.

Sherlock had no misconceptions regarding her intelligence. He never had, and after that day in the lab, when she had _seen_ him, he was certain Molly knew, had always known, recognised his manipulations. But she had played along, feigning ignorance and smiling uncomfortably.

And yet after years of being used she had been there for him. She had never left his side, risking her career, her reputation and easily enough her life – and it had made him push harder, make his way quicker through the intricate web of Moriarty's network, the knowledge _they_ had all been in danger, and Molly more with each passing day, with each person who believed Sherlock Holmes was not dead, with each criminal who had recognised him.

He exhaled through his nose. It was done now. Moriarty's network was destroyed and Molly – like John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – was safe.

But sad.

And it was the worse thing, knowing that her sadness was entirely his doing. Knowing that it was the shift in their interactions, the importance he had bestowed upon her in the faking of his death and the keeping of his secret, which had shown her more than he had wished to reveal. Giving her a measure of hope. Faint and barely there, but Sherlock had seen it in the few days he had used her apartment as a bolt-hole, hiding from the world until Mycroft had arranged his flight to the Continent.

He should have ignored her, from the very start. It would have been the rational course of action. He should have never allowed her to become a part of his life. He should have. But Sherlock always found himself unable to stop himself from meddling in her life. To allow her to live a life of her own – _a life without him in it._ The idea itself was choking and for the umpteenth time since he had walked out of the one-story house, Sherlock reminded himself the contraction of his windpipe was merely his body's automatic response to psychological stimuli – it was something he could control. It was transportation.

But as he walked towards Marylebone Road, striding down the streets of London with a purpose he didn't feel, Sherlock knew - in spite of the psychosomatic symptoms of his mind vehemently rebelling to the notion - that he had done the right thing.

And yet - just like the moment before he had taken a leap from the edge of St. Bart's roof - in that split second there at the top of the stairs when she had asked him what today had been about and Sherlock had resolved to do the right thing for once, he had felt the world turn a shade duller, colder, _emptier_.

And much, much too painful. Like wiping away a lifetime had been - having the people he cared about, the precious few he had allowed to matter, believe him dead and grieve.

But two and a half years ago _she_ had been there. And he had not hidden behind the thickest walls in his mind palace, but in a third floor apartment which he had been tempted never to leave because Molly had been there with her endless supply of tea and her old purple sofa, littered with the cat hairs which had stuck to Sherlock's clothes. She had been there, quietly going through her daily motions in her garish clothes and fluffy slippers, loud in her silence, afraid to say the wrong thing, to say something stupid. To be an _idiot_ – and how many times had he called her one, had he told her to shut up?

He knew the exact number.

He clenched his jaw, but the contraction of his stomach was a result of the activation of his temporal lobe. Of guilt. He had often treated her horribly. And it had never truly been accidental. Not with her. No, his cutting barbs had been ever deliberate, a conscious effort to push her away in spite of that _sentimental_ part of him which had always wanted her around – _still_ wanted her. He had tried in earnest to make her stop looking at him with such pious admiration, with such unending supply of forgiveness and feel contempt. Leave.

 _Because he hadn't been able to._

But when he had nearly managed to, during that Christmas party nearly three years before, he had not been able to withstand the hurt his slashing words had summoned in her eyes and he had apologised. He had taken back his words.

And Molly had stayed, stalwart as ever, if not more. Always there – and forgiving, so undeservedly forgiving when she would have been better off far away from him. She could have been happy.

If only he had let her be.

But now he had. He had. Walking down that street had been one of the hardest feats in his life, but Molly _needed_ her life. And Sherlock owed her one after all. He would have wished a happy one upon her, but he had never been in the habit of deluding himself. Molly wasn't going to be happy - not in the foreseeable future. And yet it would be considerably less miserable that the other option – _the parallel universe where he hadn't walked out of that door, turning on his heels and grasping her shoulders while he insisted, he explained, he pleaded, he told her..._ No.

String theory was a theory and physics were far more interesting – and useful - when pertaining to dynamics. No, he had made his choice and he would bear the consequences. It was for the best. For _her_ best. Molly was the one who mattered the most, after all. She deserved her dreams fulfilled – domestic and ordinary as they were.

No matter what he may have wished for, it was for the best. Molly would eventually find a measure of joy. And he... He had been given the greatest gift Molly could have given him. His life.

There was nothing more he could ask of her. Nothing.

He closed his eyes for a moment, adjusting his thoughts in the many rooms Molly still walked through - smiling at him with her dimples and big dark eyes - gently pushing her to the one wing which was only _hers_ and begging her to stay there. And just like the Molly he had left behind, this Molly's eyes grew sad even in spite of her lips being still pulled in a smile, while he closed the door behind himself. It was in his mind alone, but the sounds of the heavy wood touching the door-frame and the lock clicking closed were deafening. Final.

He opened his eyes and extending one of his gloved hand he hailed a cab.


End file.
